


Not all heroes wear capes (when jackets do just fine ...)

by Crollalanza



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Other, hint of kita/miya/miya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 03:09:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11431899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: Kita fixes them all with a commanding look, no smile, hands on his hips, and it’s as if he’s one ninety centimetres at least when he speaks, his voice towering over them. “If a player’s not ready to come back, then they don’t make the team. That goes for the captain as much as anyone, you got that!”The team stare at him, and he swears some aren’t even breathing.Now what?“You got that, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu catcalls, real soft. “When you get back from your bratty city training camp, you better have upped your game. Cuz we ain’t carryin’ ya.”





	Not all heroes wear capes (when jackets do just fine ...)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nautilics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilics/gifts), [cirrus (themorninglark)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/gifts).



> This is for Lark and Mandy because twitter gives rise to certain ideas ...
> 
> This was written before chapter 274 when we discovered why Kita Shinsuke was on the sidelines. My theory was that he had a shoulder injury.

**Freeze frame.**

_Back a bit._

_Too far._

_There!_

Bokuto Koutarou on pause, mid-stride, looks just as impressive as Kita remembers. He’s tall and with achingly broad shoulders and muscles so defined, they ripple down his arms.  His hair, which to many would make him a laughing stock, only adds, Kita thinks, to his presence.

His aura.

Kita flicks his own hair, wondering if pushing it to the side (but which side?) will make him look any more imposing, but the mirror image staring back at him shows he just looks lopsided.

**Play.**

He slipped off his jacket, not even fumbling, and threw it carelessly to the side.  Kita watches, and wonders if there was a breeze in the Tokyo stadium, because Bokuto’s jacket appeared to ripple through the air.

Like a cape.

_What an entrance,_ Kita breathes.

He rolls his shoulders, pleased the stiffness of earlier has eased, and settles down to watch the match. Either or both of these Tokyo teams could make the finals, and he needs to plan for all contingencies.

 

The twins are arguing when he gets to the gym the following morning. They’re early (as always) and hanging around outside because Kita has the key. Atsumu’s asked more than once for the chance to open up because they’re always outside waiting, and although to someone else Kita would have agreed, with Atsumu there’s always the chance he’ll turn up extra early, Osamu in tow, and they’ll have done a full two hours practise before anyone else appears.

Or worse, he’ll shake off Osamu and not have gone home.

“Hey, Kita-san,” Atsumu greets him with a flip of his hand and that lazy grin.

Osamu nods. There’s a smile on his face too, but it’s smaller, less wide. When they’d first arrived at the club, Kita thought there was something shy about Osamu, that he was less secure than his trailblazer of a brother. So as a Captain-in-Waiting, he’d made an effort to sit with him, to ask a few gentle questions to ease the boy into Inarizaki, to let him know that everyone was valued and had a part to play.

Osamu’s smile hadn’t changed. And Kita learned very quickly that just because he didn’t talk as much as his brother, it didn’t mean he had nothing to say. His words carried _weight_ , even the banter directed at his twin. And Atsumu’s acutely aware of this, however casual he pretends to be, he knows Osamu not only _has_ his back, but can _get_ him back.

“Raring to go, eh?” Kita replies, swinging the keys between his fingers.

Atsumu takes a swipe for them, Kita laughs flicking his hand back, and the keys slide off his finger into the air where Osamu catches them with an almost-smile.

It’s not long before the others appear, most on time, Atsumu’s already warmed up, and Osamu’s finishing his stretches, ensuring his hamstrings are properly flexed. And Kita circles his arms one last time before he picks up a ball.

The move isn’t lost on anyone.

They look away, waiting for their Captain to speak. But the Miya brothers continue to look, both peering through swept aside fringes, both with equal blank expressions, and watching them Kita’s suddenly confused as to which is which, although that’s absurd because they look different, and yet they’re So. Very. Alike.

“Serve receive practise,” he commands and steps to the base line. “I’ll start.”

“Receiving?” Akagi asks, the question in his voice is a courtesy. He stands alongside his captain, knowing they’re both in defence.

“Nope.” He spins the ball with his fingers, licks his lips and lets a smile play on his lips, hoping the lightness he wants to project is emanating from his appearance and not the ugly, churning guts inside him.

“Go to the other side, will ya, Michinari?”

He starts a run up, a perfect five paces, the run up he’s had in his mind ever since he watched the greats and wondered about serves. He tosses high, and in time. He leaps, and it’s good, as if he has springs in his heels, and his hand, his arm, his shoulder, move in rhythm like the wheel on a ferryboat, over and over. In contact with the ball, he sends it to the opposite corner. Akagi dives for it, hoofs it high in the air, but it’s uncontrolled.

“Service Ace,” he yells.

“Hey, don’t pity me!” Kita retorts. And from the way his Libero flinches, he knows he wasn’t wrong.  

Once it had been pity that had driven him. The pity at Middle School when he’d lost a final, the pity when he’d not grown over one eighty centimetres like his brother  (‘You could always be a Libero, _li’l_ bro.’)

Pity had led to that need inside him to prove them wrong.

But it had pushed too far, _too far_ , and he’d worked too hard to hone his serves, ignoring the niggle in his shoulder blade, taking longer in the shower to loosen it up and wash away the fear.

He fixes them all with a commanding look, no smile, hands on his hips, and it’s as if he’s one ninety centimetres at least when he speaks, his voice towering over them. “If a player’s not ready to come back, then they don’t make the team. That goes for the captain as much as anyone, you got that!” The team stare at him, and he swears some aren’t even breathing.

_Now what?_

“You got that, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu catcalls, real soft. “When you get back from your bratty city training camp, you better have upped your game. Cuz we ain’t carryin’ ya.”

The shift away from their captain is at once welcome, even if half the team are still gazing at Kita with half worn sympathy.

“And don’t pick up any of them there fancy ways,” Suna croons, picking up the thread, a thin smile lighting his cat-like eyes.

“What am I s’posed to do?” Atsumu retaliates, a little snappish.

“Intimidate the fuckers,” Osamu replies. “You need t’ make an impression. That’s half the battle, right?”

“’Specially Sakusa,” growls Oomimi. He’s clutching his hand, rubbing the side of it as if he can still feel the sting of Sakusa’s last point when they’d lost at Inter-High.

“Steal his mask,” joke Akagi. “Then breathe on him. He won’t be able t’ take the country air.”

And suddenly they’re all laughing again.

It’s Atsumu’s turn to serve. He decides on a jump float, and although Alan’s ready and Akagi’s once more in place, the ball evades them. There’s no pity there. They went all out, but still its arc confused them.

“Again,” Akagi shouts, not waiting for instruction. “I need the practise.”

The intensity in the gym increases tenfold.

 

 

Although Atsumu had said he didn’t want anyone seeing him off, Kita thinks he’s pissed when no one objects. It’s a gulp o’clock early start, and most don’t want to get up, not when it’ll be followed by another gruelling practice. They slap ‘Miya-kun’ on the back and wish him all the best the night before. Suna hands him a map and Japanese phrase book ’cuz they talk different there’ and then wisps away before Atsumu registers.

Borrowing his mother’s car, Kita turns up before sunrise and waits in the driveway.  There’s a sliver of a moon in the cloudless sky, and the starlight shimmers on the Miyas’ frosted lawn. He can see the curtains twitching downstairs, and then the door opens and out bounds not one but two Miya boys. (Although Osamu’s not exactly bounding, but slouching his way to the car, wrapped up in a heavy black coat and woollen hat pulled almost over his eyes.)

Atsumu is disgustingly lively this time of the day, far more awake than anyone has a right to be, whereas Osamu is all black circles under eyes and sleep-deprived grumpiness.

“I can get him there myself,” Kita suggests because he knows how much Osamu likes his sleep.

“Nah, I need t’ make sure he’s actually gone,” Osamu replies. He gets in the back seat, letting Atsumu ride in front, and sprawls out. “Wake me up when the coach arrives.”

Normally the journey wouldn’t take long especially this early. But there’s a winding track from the Miyas’ house, and Kita’s aware of the ice on the roads, so he slows down and keeps his eyes in front, checking his mirrors with all due care and attention. It’s a standing joke that Osamu can fall asleep anywhere, Atsumu swears he sleepwalks his way to school, and sure enough, he’s soon snoozing in the back of the car.

And it’s at this time, this quiet time, when he knows there’s no audience that Atsumu slumps. “You’ll take care of him, right?”

“’Tsumu, have we ever let you down?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I know. It’s just ...”

He wants his twin there. As much as he likes being the one who draws the eye, he likes knowing Osamu’s with him. And this separation only reminds him that he can take nothing for granted. Even a game against minnows could cause an upset.

The rest of the journey is silent, the sound of the spluttering radio, as Atsumu tries to find a station he likes, covers the soft sniffles from the back. There’s nothing more to say. Kita could talk tactics, could offer some advice, but this is Atsumu’s second year and he’s already the most talented player Kita’s ever seen.

_What can I possibly tell you?_ he thinks as his eyes drift off the road and to the profile next to him.

“And take care of yourself, Shinsuke,” Atsumu murmurs, flicking Kita a side-glance. “I’d like to play alongside my captain again.”

He wills the tears into abeyance, then fixes his eyes to the road again. “Hey, I’m good, Miya-kun. When you get back, I’ll be running the show again. You won’t be able t’ keep me off court.”

And it’s probably a lie but as the stars continue to light the way ahead, Kita thinks that hope and faith are always good.

They pull up by the coach station, and without them saying a word, Osamu opens his eyes, stretches, and then shivers. He opens his car door, pulling out his brother’s case, and slouches against the bonnet. “Take care, ‘Tsumu,” he says, not even bothering to hide his yawn. “Don’t come back speakin’ all fancy, ya hear?”

“Any advice?” Atsumu asks Kita.

“Go get those scrubs!” Kita hisses.

They watch the coach carrying their most precious cargo leave for Tokyo. Atsumu waves once, then plugs himself into his iPod, seemingly not bothered that they’re still there. And Kita supposes they could leave now, but they wait until the coach can’t be seen, and then for five minutes more, just in case Atsumu tears back to them with a list of one hundred and one things he needs.

“He’ll be okay,” Kita murmurs, but he’s not sure who he’s reassuring.

“It ain’t him I’m worried about.” 

“You know how good you are, whether he’s there or not, don’t ya?” Kita asks.

“Sure.” They return to the car, Osamu taking the front seat now. “You’re still our Captain, Shinsuke.”

_How much did you hear? Or is this telepathy?_

“Not much of one if I can’t step on court,” he sighs.

“It’s like I told ‘Tsumu - first impressions are gold,” Osamu says. “We gotta shake up those city teams. Show ‘em we ain’t country hicks.”

“Practise our entrance, right?” Kita stares out of the window, remembering Bokuto Koutarou, who whatever the magazines say about him, has style.

“Cloaks flowin’.” Osamu gives his lopsided smile. “C’n we get a band playin’ too?”

“Why not? We’re the ‘idols’ after all.” With a grin in his mirror, Kita starts the car and they head off back home. It’s warmed up and the frosty roads are no longer deadly white, but shimmering silver.

***

They make their entrance. Kita’s flanked by his boys, their mirror image causing gasps and squeals of delight. He’s flicked his hair from one side to the other, before settling on dead centre. He wears his jacket like a cape, streaming from his shoulders, and although there’s no orchestra sounding their arrival, the applause is their music, the anticipation the finest of melodies.

And he can only watch. Except it’s more than that. Everyone’s said that. He’s a captain on the sidelines, but he has the measure of his team. He can observe and plan, can watch  and plot the downfall of their opponents. He will wait for his chance.

Somewhere in the melee of their entrance, Kita Shinsuke lost his jacket. Unlike Bokuto, there was no one to gather it up when he tore it from his shoulders. Alan tells him a girl from the crowd shrieked and ran forward to claim it. A trophy – he guesses he can get a new one. But for now, he’s wearing someone else’s. If he sticks his arms through the sleeves, he knows it will hang off him, but as a superhero cape, it’ll do fine.

It smells of citrus soap, and something warm, like homemade apple pie.

And he’s not sure whose jacket it is because they share so much (or rather Atsumu ‘borrows’ his brother’s stuff, much to Osamu’s chagrin) but he doesn’t care. It’s keeping his shoulder warm. And it’s the closest he can get to playing with the pair of them for now.

It smells _nice._

***

Shortly after the Miyas had bounded into his life, Kita had watched Atsumu, agape at the effortless grace of the boy. Yes, he worked hard, but he had this instinctive knack at knowing what to work on, how to polish...

How to make it fun.

There’d been a toss, a high, impossible toss, reckless because Atsumu had clearly wanted to work something out in his head, to stretch the boundaries, and no one was really going to get that ... were they?

But Osamu had been in the background, taking everything in, and then producing a spectacular spike, surprising everyone. But not Atsumu, who’d let out his sweet chuckle of a laugh, a slight hiccup in his throat, pure pleasure, almost fey. And there was an echo as Osamu saw what he’d done and how everyone’s eyes were on him. He’d mock-bowed, high fived his brother, then gone back to the baseline, waiting for the next move.

And Kita’s not at all sure he didn’t fall a little in love that day.


End file.
